


They Talked of Penis and Patronus

by orphan_account



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crack, Crossover, Explicit Language, Fluff, M/M, Magic, Potterlock, Pre-Slash, Sexual Tension, getting together fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-12
Updated: 2012-10-12
Packaged: 2017-11-16 03:47:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/535142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John are students at Hogwarts (in their sixth year) and Sherlock is helping John with some spells. They also talk about their wands a lot (wooden or otherwise).</p>
            </blockquote>





	They Talked of Penis and Patronus

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt: "potter!lock please - I want to find out Sherlock's patronus if it fits in”.
> 
> By Rin and Summer.
> 
> We take crack requests/prompts! You can submit one to us at: consultingcrackaddicts.tumblr.com/ask  
> We'll post it on the blog and here on Ao3. :]

 

John and Sherlock were lounging in a small, secluded courtyard, right on the edge of the sweeping Hogwarts lawns. The air was warm enough for them to not need their jumpers, but not so warm that the surface of the planet was molten lava.  
  
They had a free period that afternoon, and they were spending it mostly fucking around - John was trying to master non-verbal spells, while Sherlock (who had mastered non-verbal magic in their second year) was showing off. Because he is a gigantic asshole like that.  
  
“You could at least help me!” John said, getting pretty fucking pissed off.  
  
“How can I help you do something inside your head? Don’t be ridiculous.”  
  
“Don’t be a tosser, then.”  
  
“Who’s tossing? All I’m saying is that you have to concentrate properly. It’s really very simple.”  
  
“Maybe for you, butthead.”  
  
“My head resembles no type of posterior, John, now you’re just lashing out.”  
  
“I’ll lash you.” John said, under his breath.  
  
“Oh _really_?” said Sherlock as he polished his wand vigorously, a smirk on his face (haha, not that wand, you eager skanks).  
  
“No, not really,” John blushed, “Just shut up, if you’re not going to be helpful.”  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes and leaned back against a pillar. He spun his wand between his fingers (to impress John, what a cutie), before flicking it quickly. He then made a top hat appear out of thin air - and then a rabbit appear out of the top hat.  
  
“Will you stop messing about?” asked John.  
  
“I think you’ll find, if you keep the rabbit, that she glows in the dark,” Sherlock ignored John, his eyes lazily following the rabbit’s hopping progress, “Like a fairy.”  
  
“I don’t care about the damn rabbit!” said John, on the verge of giving up on his wand completely.  
  
“How rude.” said Sherlock, “What did Bluebell ever do to you?”  
  
“Who?”  
  
“The rabbit, John. Do keep up. You might hurt her feelings and then she’ll give you rabies or something”  
  
“Jesus fucking Christ.” John said, dropping his wand arm to his side, “Why would you make a rabies infected rabbit on purpose?”  
  
“Why _wouldn’t_ I?”  
  
Sherlock stood and walked swiftly over to John, his robes billowing dramatically, as only Sherlock’s robes would, because he had actually charmed them to move as if he were constantly in a gust of wind, although you would never catch him admitting that to John. He thought it gave him a certain mysterious look, when actually all it did was slap other students in the face.  
  
“Your problem is that you don’t know what the fuck you’re doing” he said kindly, as he sat down next to John, “In order to do nonverbal spells, you have to not be thick as pig shit. Now, I know that’s a bit hard for you, but you really should try. Give weight to your poorly-formed thoughts, and then direct them towards your wand. It really is simple, once you understand.” Said Sherlock, as sarcastic as a fish that was really good at being sarcastic.  
  
John rolled his eyes and then swallowed, concentrating on his task - which was that much tougher now that he could feel Sherlock next to him. He closed his eyes to focus himself, but he could still sense Sherlock, could still smell him. He tried not to get hard in his pants and stuff (because I assume that teenage boys get boners like, twenty times a day).  
  
  
“Um.”  
  
“Do you remember when we were first years and in the first day or two of school, we all had immense fun shooting sparks around because we didn’t know any proper magic? Well... You didn’t, at least.”  
  
“Yes, I remember, you cock.” John said tersely, thinking about Sherlock’s cock.  
  
“Exactly. Did that require verbalization?”  
  
“No. But it wasn’t exactly hard. It was just unbridled energy, right? The result of us being completely useless arses?” He said, as he thought about taking Sherlock with unbridled penis energy.  
  
“Yes, of course. But the idea there is that now you have proper incantations, properly harnessed energy, do you see?”  
  
John was trying to see, but he had sex-goggles on and was distracted by Sherlock’s low voice in his ear, the hand on his shoulder, the thigh touching his (like two Rolos in a packet). Sherlock had to know what he was doing to John? Of course he did. Did he? Maybe not. Probably not. John could never be sure.  
  
“Um. Sure.”  
  
Sherlock chuckled, noticing the lump in John’s pants.  
  
“Alright then. Pick a spell and try to perform it nonverbally.”  
  
John swallowed, trying to think of a spell easy enough to do, but not so easy that Sherlock would scoff.  
  
“Okay. I’ll make some birds.” John said, because Sherlock liked birds, and John made good birds and Jesus, who cares.  
  
“Very good.” Said Sherlock, leaning back and crossing his arms over his chest, as if waiting for a spectacle, or like he was part of Michael Jackson’s gang or something equally tough sounding.  
  
John did not want him waiting in vain, so he busted his ass to make some birdies.  
  
 _Avis_ , he thought, _Avis, avis, avis!_  
  
Nothing happened.  
  
“Keep trying John.”  
  
John shuffled his grip on the wood, his brow screwed up in concentration.  
  
 _Fucking avis!_ He thought, hard.  
  
A single, tiny, fluff of a feather spouted out the tip of his wand, floating softly to the ground through the shafts of afternoon sunlight.  
  
“Well. It’s a start.” said Sherlock, grinning at the attempt.  
  
“Shut up.” said John resignedly, slumping back into his seat again, “Maybe I’m one of the few wizards who can’t do non-verbal spells.”  
  
“That’s ridiculous. I have complete faith in you, and if I have faith, then of course you’re capable. You know as well as I do that I am most assuredly always right.”  
  
“Not always.”  
  
“Almost always.” Said Sherlock briskly, as John grinned.  
  
“Not really though, because of the numerous times you’ve been wrong.”  
  
“Except those times I was only half wrong, so that doesn’t count because I wasn’t completely wrong”  
  
“You are an actual twat.” John said, before collecting his thoughts and once again raising his wand (haha, which wand though?)  
  
This was really tough. Trying to say a spell nonverbally was like trying to take a shit with your pants still on, or trying to eat through your nose, or masturbating without touching your genitals.  
  
 _Avis_ , he thought again. _Avis_.  
  
Nothing.  
  
“You could always try picturing the birds as you think the word.” came Sherlock’s lofty voice from his right.  
  
John nodded, and filled his mind with images of tiny sparrows, spouting out of his wand before flitting about the courtyard. If that’s not strangely erotic symbolism, I don’t know what is.  
  
 _Avis_ , he tried again, moving his wand determinedly.  
  
The air around them filled with chirping noises and shit!  
  
“Oh, bravo, John!” came Sherlock’s voice beside him.  
  
John opened his eyes to see Sherlock leaning forward to closer examine the flock of birds he had created.  
  
“I did tell you.” Sherlock said, without looking at John.  
  
Instead, he was investigating the plump sparrow that had landed on his long and narrow index finger.  
  
“You should be very proud, they’re quite sweet. If a bit fat” He said, his smile wide and his eyes twinkling.  
  
“Thanks.” John blushed, feeling chuffed.  
  
“And, er, deformed” Sherlock said, pointing to a nightmare sparrow that had two heads and was the colour of a mouldy orange, screeching like it was announcing the arrival of satan.  
  
“Oops”  
  
“Oops is right. Try again now. This time with a different bird.”  
  
“A... A different bird?”  
  
“Yes, make a different bird.” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes like _didn’t you fucking hear me you deaf twat?_  
  
“Okay.” said John, taken completely by surprise, even though it was all pretty clear (let’s be real, John is a bit slow when Sherlock’s penis is on his mind).  
  
Wanting more of Sherlock’s praise and attention, he squinted his eyes closed, and imagined something totally far fetched, a bird that might impress Sherlock, make him laugh.  
  
They sat in silence, one boy with his eyes shut tight, flicking his wand repeatedly (heh), while the other watched him intently. It was only two minutes or so before there was a loud squawking noise, and the courtyard was filled with toucans.  
  
John revelled in his companions laughter.  
  
“Toucans, John! Absolutely brilliant, how marvellous!” Sherlock said, as he rested his chin on his hand and observed the birds as they flapped the fuck around, flap-flap.  
  
John grinned to himself, pleased with his own work, pleased by the pleasure that Sherlock derived from it (not naughty pleasure, you twisted bitches). They sat for many minutes more, observing the birds as the light (and John’s spell) grew weaker around them, the air filling fast with toucan feathers as the birds moulted and fell apart.  
  
“That really was good, John, even if the spell was as weak as gnat's piss,” Sherlock said with a warm smile on his face, “try something a bit tougher.”  
  
“A tougher bird?”  
  
“No, a tougher spell!”  
  
“Like what?”  
  
“I don’t know, you think of something, I can’t always be a genius. Well, I can, but I’m not in the mood to right now.”  
  
“I’m not sure...” John said, wanting to pick something impressive.  
  
“I could do a Patronus?” He offered.  
  
“Could you though?” Sherlock was actually a massive bitch disguised as not-a-bitch.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Where did you learn to? When?” Sherlock interrogated, leaning forward into John’s personal space.  
  
“Well I’ve got to think of something fun to do while you’re off researching things for your extra homework, and my knob gets sore eventually,” John said, “I learned last year.”  
  
“Hm,” Sherlock looked at him ever more appraisingly, “I suppose.”  
  
“Do you not know how?”  
  
“Of course I know how!” Sherlock snorted.  
  
“Really?”  
  
“Yes, since forever.” (Well, not quite that long).  
  
“I would have thought that would be something you would have shown off about.”  
  
“Well...” Sherlock said, letting his sentence trail off as if he had no intentions of finishing it, which he didn’t.  
  
John sniffed.  
  
“Anyway, I’d better get on with it, before it’s tea time.”  
  
“Yes.” Said Sherlock, not meeting his eye.  
  
John closed his eyes once more, picturing his patronus, while he thought the incantation to himself.  
  
Nothing happened.  
  
“Are you thinking of a happy thought?” the voice to the right reminded him.  
  
“Yes, obviously.” said John, even though he had forgotten because he was so busy visualising.  
  
He cast about in search of something happy. A thought. Something to bring hope. He thought of Sherlock, here with him in this very same courtyard, except in his mind they were different, together. He imagined what it would be like to hold Sherlock while he himself was held. The image in his mind depicted them, and they were closer than ever they had been, their knees touching, their hands, their faces, their lips. He thought of them totally naked and engaging in a spot of frottage, Sherlock crying out John’s name as he wore the sorting hat, while John spanked him with the business end of a broomstick.  
  
With this last though, his mind surged and the thought it! _Expecto Patronum!_  
  
His patronus burst forth from his wand tip, shining and bright (the patronus, of course. The semen burst forth from the wand in his pants). Trotting a slow circle around the courtyard, it came to a stop in front of them, wings folded into it’s body.  
  
“Your patronus... Is Pegasus?” Sherlock asked almost disbelieving.  
  
“Yes. Why? Is that a bad thing?”  
  
“No, not at all. Merely an impressive sight.”  Sherlock sniffed, as if he were the spoilt girl at a birthday party who didn’t get the barbie crown from the centre of the pass-the-parcel.  
  
“Aren’t all patronuses?”  
  
“No, not always. Some aren’t quite as great or as mythical as yours.”  
  
“Oh. What’s yours then?”  
  
“Nothing quite so striking.”  
  
“Will you show me?” (Your peeeenis~)  
  
“Absolutely not.”  
  
“Don’t be embarrassed about it, it’s probably not that bad.” (Hahah, still funny if you pretend they’re talking about penis).  
  
“It doesn’t really instill the feeling of hope or relief that one might expect to feel upon seeing their patronus.” Sherlock said offhandedly.  
  
“I don’t mind Sherlock, show me.” (Your penaaaaass!)  
  
“Fine.”  
  
And with a flick of his wrist and a small crease of his brow, Sherlock’s patronus took shape before them, in the place that John’s had faded.  
  
“It’s very nice.” (Yeah it is! Wink wink)  
  
“No it’s not, John, it’s a jellyfish.” Sherlock snapped.  
  
“Jellyfish are nice.”  
  
“Jellyfish are dull.”  
  
“No. They’re very pretty to look at. Although they can sting a bit, if you try and get to close. Quite fitting for you, really. Also because you are ninety-nine percent water”  
  
“I am not!” said Sherlock, sloshing around because he was ninety-nine percent water.  
  
“And I don’t sting.”  
  
“You do sometimes. You are actually the biggest bitch.” You tell him, John!  
  
“Well only because it seems as if everyone is an imbecile, and I grow tired of it quickly.”  
  
“Sorry for boring you.”  
  
“I didn’t mean you, I meant everyone else. You know, the... Other people. Not like us.”  
  
“Sherlock, you corrected the teacher on their magic last week, and were right. They have been teaching for like, eighty years or something. You are the smartest person in the whole of the castle, and I don’t know why you’re choosing now to not show off about it, because you know it’s true. ” John said, exasperated.  
  
Sherlock paused, thinking, while John practiced shooting a fountain of semen from his wand-tip without saying the words. Haha, see, you don’t know if I’m talking about his actual wand or his pants wand, and you never will.  
  
“I suppose so,” Sherlock said eventually, “But you forgot to say that I’m also the most charismatic and attractive.”  
  
“You are the least charismatic person I have ever met.” said John, lying through his teeth.  
  
“Liar.” Said Sherlock, lighting fire to John’s pants.  
  
“I’m not lying! Jesus Christ Sherlock, put it out!”  
  
“Yes you are. And you can either take your pants off, of put them out using nonverbal magic only.” (Because who are the CCA if we don’t include a bit of D/s in our fics?!).  
  
John hissed as the cold water from his wand tip hit his pants, making his balls jump up into his body, because he’d accidentally produced ice water in his haste to put out Sherlock’s damn fire.  
  
“You’re an arsehole.”  
  
“It amuses you, most of the time.”  
  
“No, not most of the time, you pretend it amuses me so that you don’t have to behave yourself.”  
  
Sherlock looked at John like _Woah bitch, sorry not sorry if you don’t like my style._  
  
“What?” John asked.  
  
“Nothing, just making sure that you didn’t burn your penis off,” Sherlock said, making a grab at John’s crotch, “Nope, still there.”  
  
“Fucking hell!” John said, looking thoroughly sexually harassed.  
  
“What? I’m only looking out for you.”  
  
“Yeah, alright, but I can check for myself if my penis is attached.”  
  
“You wouldn’t prefer I do it?” Said Sherlock, feigning innocence  
  
John gaped at him.  
  
“Shut your mouth or you’ll catch a cold, and I may not be around to warm you up.  
  
John frowned at him, shaking his head and trying to hide the massive erection he was now sporting as a result of the quick grope.  
  
“Anyway, it’s about time for dinner, so we should head in and eat, if we hope to get a spot by ourselves. I’ll be joining you at your table again. Unless you want to eat in the kitchens?” Sherlock said airily, as he moved to collect his books and bag.  
  
“The Great Hall is fine, don’t want the elves to get mad at us again.” John said, the blood flowing away from his penis as they left the courtyard and walked towards the castle.  
  
“No, that’s true. They can be quite feisty, can’t they?”  
  
“Yes... Which is also like you. Maybe your patronus should be a house elf.”  
  
“Shut up John, you’re helping no one but yourself.”  
  
“That’s the best kind of help.” (he means wanking).  
  
“Well, do as we’ve done all afternoon, and keep your jokes in your head if no one will benefit from them.”  
  
“The toucans were in my head, but you liked those.”  
  
“They didn’t make jokes at my expense.”  
  
“Well, they were speaking bird, so you never know, they might have been.”  
  
“How reassuring.”  
  
John girded his loins then, and dove into the deep end of the sex pool.  
  
“Sherlock, listen,” John said, stopping just before they joined the mass of students in the Entrance Hall, “I... Secretly do want you to touch my penis. All the time. It’s all I think about. Sometimes I touch myself and pretend it’s you. Well, everytime I touch myself, I pretend it’s you, or think about you, or want to be with you. I think you would be a most excellent penis toucher, and I offer mine up to you, if you will have it.”  
  
Sherlock smiled. Oh hallelujah! He’d had fun watching John’s growing attraction to him, but he was relieved that he’d finally received an invite to touch his friend on the penis (and in the bum, with his own penis, he was assuming).  
  
“You know I will. I will touch it as lovingly as the sun is bright, as tenderly as the day is long, as sexually as the sea is deep. Mostly with my hands, but sometimes with my mouth or penis, and eventually with the insides of my arse, if you know what I mean.”  
  
“Yeah, I do. Good. That’s good.” John said, also smiling, before heading for the front door.  
  
“John. If I ‘sting’ you, so to speak, I don’t... Intend to. I would never intend to. Intentionally.”  
  
“So not intentionally then.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“So you don’t always mean everything you do.”  
  
“I guess not.”  
  
“It’s like I said earlier, you’re not always right.” John laughed, as he turned and entered the castle (he was keen to hide his boner under the dinner table, in the hopes that Sherlock might get down to the touching right away).  
  
Sherlock followed after him.  
  
“Almost always.” he said, planning to get his hands on John’s genitals as soon as they were sat down.  
  
But that’s a tale for another time.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments are always appreciated. :]
> 
> Info for requests/prompts can be found in the notes at the top.


End file.
